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Zagreus tells them that there are strange things happening in Elysium.
Of course, Achilles must be told to realize it—he is not in Elysium often enough for him to notice, really, if anything is amiss—and so must his Patroclus, who contents himself with his little glade and is not concerned with the situations of the other bloodthirsty dead. But Zagreus says it is serious.
“I haven’t seen Father this furious in…” Zagreus pauses to contemplate the passage of time in the Underworld. “Eons, really.”
“That’s why the line to his desk loops in on itself three times, then?” Achilles says, because he might not see much of Elysium, but he has indeed seen much of the House. The line to Hades’ desk is tightly managed by Charon and Hypnos, and crams the Great Hall full. Every so often there’s a great clutter and grumbling when Zagreus emerges from the pool and has to shove through all those shades to get out. Their pleas to Hades are strange—pleas of improper placement, general confusion, their homes in the afterlife being displaced, or, most strangely, word of doubles. Hades has no answers, and seems especially perturbed by shades who claim to have met doubles of themselves. He simply sends them away.
Achilles of course had been wondering about the cause of these disturbances, but it was not his place to ask. Serving in the House of Hades humbles a man.
Zagreus looks around the glade as if he’s afraid someone will hear him. Then he leans in very close to them both and hisses, “They’re considering putting me on administrative work.”
“Woe,” says Patroclus, pitiless. “Certainly that’s just a threat, stranger. Your father can’t be that foolish.”
It gets Zagreus to crack a smile, as was probably intended. But he still looks perturbed when he dashes off to face the champions.
There is nothing either of them can do about it, really. The both of them have learned through much experience that where they are in the Underworld does not matter, so long as they are together. Achilles does fret initially that he will lose Patroclus when he must return to the House, but Zagreus promises that Patroclus can be kept track of. “It’s the new shades who are confused,” he says, and Achilles cannot really understand the machinations of the strange system that operates the Underworld, but everything has proven to him that he can trust Zagreus with Patroclus.
So the Underworld falls to pieces around them, and they continue to exist. Achilles must be slightly more alert at his post now that there are so many more souls in the House at one time, but only slightly. Patroclus tells him more shades stumble upon his glade, but not too many more, and they are usually amicable once they see he is not itching for a fight. They have their glade, away from all of the strangeness that is befalling their world, and they have each other. And that is enough.
Until a new pair of souls stumble into Patroclus’ glade.
Achilles has his head on Patroclus’ shoulder, and they are discussing the potential effects of the shapeshifting Underworld on the braggart champion Theseus: “Perhaps the entire stadium will open up under his feet,” Pat says.
“Ha!” Achilles laughs. “You know he will probably find a way to place the blame on Zagreus.”
“It baffles me why Asterius—“ But Pat stops. “Is that your ward?”
On the far side of the glade, past where the two of them can see, there is, indeed, a voice.
“No,” Pat answers himself.
It is not Zagreus’, nor does it seem like one Achilles had heard before—it is low and almost swallowed by the rushing Lethe’s waters. The voice is answered by another, lighter and sharp like the swing of a spear, even below the current of sound. This one is a little easier to make out. Achilles parses the word “glory” and shifts. Pat, though, touches his hand. “Let us wait,” he murmurs.
Soon the shades come into view on the other side of the bridge. One is fair, one is dark-haired and dark-skinned, though their features are still obscured, and the dark-haired one stops to point at Achilles and Patroclus on the other side. The fair one clutches a glorious spear that is darkened, unmistakably, with Elysian blood.
“Peace!” the dark-haired one calls.
Pat raises his eyebrows at Achilles, as if to say, I told you so. “Peace, stranger,” he calls in response, and even so far away, both strangers noticeably relax.
The strangers cross the bridge together. The fair one’s hand is interlinked with the dark-haired one’s. Now that they are closer, Achilles can get a good look at them. They are both men, certainly, but not of Achilles and Pat’s age, perhaps a decade younger. The fair one gleams unmistakably with divinity. It is not to the intensity any of the Gods in the House do, but Achilles learned to recognize it long before that, in the strange but subtle way every half-God differed from the rest of the population. It is not in anything in particular, but something about the glint in his eye, the smooth way he moves, makes Achilles recognize it in him instantly, like he is recognizing himself. His skin glows with it, and his blond curls remind Achilles of his own in his youth.
It is not him that catches Achilles’ eye, though. It is the dark-haired one. He is not divine. A mortal man, but a beautiful one. Achilles cannot describe exactly what it is about him. He is taller than the fair one, if a little sturdier, with calloused hands and freckles dotting his cheeks. His skin is a sun-kissed brown, not as dark as Pat’s, and his black curls are cut short like Zagreus’ are. Instinctively Achilles thinks it is a bit of a shame. He leans in to murmur something to the fair one and smiles, a brilliant grin that stands stark against his dark skin and scruff. Something in him calls to Achilles, too, but not as the fair one did. In a much different way.
He is forced out of his thoughts when they both pause a few feet away from Achilles and Pat.
“Hail,” says the fair one. This is the one with the voice like a blade. “Hear our apologies for infringing on your glade.”
Pat meets Achilles’ eyes for a second. His gaze is dark, and Achilles wonders if he’s found the strangers as beautiful as he himself has. But he does not give Achilles much time to think. “Hail,” he says to the fair one. “I said peace, and I meant it. There is no infringement here. You may rest if you’d like.”
Achilles clears his throat. “You look like you need it,” he adds.
The fair one blinks at his blood-spattered spear as if he’s forgotten it was there. “Yes, well,” he says, “every shade in these new fields seems set squarely on killing me.”
“And they never will,” the dark-haired one says, sitting, as invited.
The fair one smiles, dangerous. “And they never will,” he agrees, and he sits, too.
Again, Achilles exchanges a glance with his beloved.
Pat looks unimpressed at the two shades’ gall. Still, he has always been much more generous than he’s liked to let on. “If you are exhausted, I have food and drink,” he offers. “You are our guests.”
The fair one and the dark-haired one exchange a similar glance, and the fair one smiles again, this time with a sweetness. “You are kind,” he says, “and I would be very flattered.”
They take one of Pat’s Hydralites and share it amongst themselves. Achilles can tell from the ease with which they sit together and willingness with which the fair one shares his drink that they are intimate friends. A drop of the drink the dark-haired one takes spills down his lip and trails down his chin, shining against his dark skin. Achilles follows its path with his gaze until the fair one leans in, swipes it away with his thumb, and kisses it off of the dark-haired one’s lips. The two of them laugh.
Ah. Achilles leans back. So they are more intimate than friends, then. The dark-haired one’s tongue wets his lips where the fair one’s mouth had just been, and Achilles has to avert his eyes. Of course that means he looks to Pat, who is looking right at him with his chin on one hand. He certainly knows what Achilles is thinking.
“Could we have the names of our hosts?” says the dark-haired one.
“Names mean little, stranger,” says Pat, slow. “But you can call me Patroclus.”
The fair one’s sharp eyes narrow, and the dark-haired one shifts, as if uncomfortable.
“Patroclus, son of who?” the fair one asks.
There is a threat in his tone. Pat straightens in response to it. “Does it matter?”
The fair one does not blink at this. “Certainly.”
“Son of Menoitius.”
The dark-haired one’s lips part, and he looks between Achilles and Pat, uncomprehending.
“Ha!” laughs the fair one, whip-sharp. His hand creeps towards the great bloody spear at his side. With his other hand, he points to Achilles. “And who do you claim to be, then? Achilles, son of Peleus?”
Achilles makes to stand. “Quite,” he says coolly. “If you are looking for a fight—”
“Wait! I am Patroclus, son of Menoitius!”
Both of them pause to look at the dark-haired one, who has his hands up, a placating gesture. “I am Patroclus, son of Menoitius,” he repeats, “and that is Achilles, son of Peleus. Certainly you must understand why we are affronted by—”
Suddenly, Achilles remembers Zagreus’ words, and the shades scrambling at Hades’ desk.
“There is a mistake,” Achilles says, and he too lifts his hands, to placate. It is something his years as a teacher have given him in spades. “No affront, lads. It seems we are both Achilles, son of Peleus, and you both Patroclus, son of Menoitius.”
It takes some time—much of it spent explaining the strange workings of the Underworld, which Achilles himself barely understands, and talking about Zagreus, who the young Achilles and Patroclus have never met—but eventually, the pair are convinced. This Elysium is unlike anything they have seen in their eons of death, anyway, according to the young Patroclus, and while this is strange, it does make sense.
“Very little has made sense recently,” grumbles the young Achilles.
The pair sit much closer, now, forming a little circle with Achilles and Pat. It is funny that Achilles ever mistook them; they are not quite the same, but they are certainly not different. Achilles recognizes his own old pride in the young Achilles’ catlike smile, and the young Patroclus’ eyes are much the same as his Pat’s. Their story is similar, too—a youth together, a war that split them apart, Hector, Apollo, Elysium. Except they had never spent years in the Underworld apart. Instead, the young Patroclus had not been properly buried for many years.
“I cannot imagine how that must have felt,” Pat says, with an unusual openness. He leans over to set a hand on the young Patroclus’ knee. “Take heart. At least your separation was the fault of others’ impudence, and not your own beloved’s idiocy…”
“Pat!” Achilles exclaims, but he knows he has earned it. The young pair laugh, and his eyes are drawn to the young Patroclus, who has covered his smile with one hand. Gods, he is beautiful. Shame rushes through him as soon as the thought crosses his mind. He is a young man, still golden, and Achilles has no right to think of him in such a way, especially when his beloved, older, is right there. Still, when the younger Patroclus lifts his head and meets Achilles’ eyes he smiles, and Achilles feels like a young man again.
It does not happen quickly. They all shift closer as they talk, tightening their little circle. The young pair keep exchanging their Hydralite, but also keep creeping closer to Achilles and Pat. The young Achilles likes to lean into Pat’s space and then pull away, as if taunting, and Achilles can see Pat’s eyes moving down his slim, muscular body and back up to his face. The young Patroclus is not so bold, but he keeps shifting closer and closer until he and Achilles are right next to each other. His eyes flutter to Achilles’ and then dart away. It is like a game. When Achilles catches him next, he smiles, and the young Patroclus takes his hand in his. He turns it over, admiring the callouses and the veins, the things that have stolen Achilles’ gentle youth.
“You are so… well built,” the young Patroclus says.
Achilles blinks, not sure exactly how to respond to this.
Young Patroclus pulls away, as if abruptly realizing how inappropriate this is. “Forgive my indiscretion,” he says, abashed. “I have never seen Achilles…”
“Old?” suggests the young Achilles, coy.
The young Patroclus pulls a face. “The word is mature, I think.” That earns another laugh from all of them. Young Patroclus, pleased by the sound, meets Achilles’ eyes and brushes some of his hair away from his face. “Why, Achilles,” he says, of course to the young one, “are you jealous? He is quite beautiful still.”
Even with his years of experience something about this startles Achilles. He has not been wanting for young men who desire him—he has met Zagreus, after all—but the way the beautiful youth in front of him speaks with such blitheness catches him off guard. Perhaps the young Patroclus only meant it to tease the young Achilles, for he immediately looks away.
The young Achilles cuts the young Patroclus a smirk. “I cannot be jealous,” he says frankly, “for I have quite the beauty to lay eyes on, myself.”
Pat raises an eyebrow. “Do you, now,” he says drily. When he meets Achilles’ eyes, though, his lips twitch upwards, just barely, into a grin.
So they are playing, then.
Achilles brings his hand up to cup young Patroclus’ cheek. “Are you trying to seduce us, lad?” he says, in a soft voice.
Young Patroclus’ tongue wets his lips again. He looks aside, to the young Achilles, and they say, “If that is what you’d like,” in sync, perhaps to each other, perhaps to Achilles and Pat.
Pat, the bolder of them in this afterlife, does not hesitate to pull young Achilles onto his lap. The man goes willingly, that catlike smile on his lips until Pat covers them with his own. He lets out a high-pitched sound, but wraps his arms around Pat and kisses him back like he’s trying to devour him. He is beautiful, too, as golden with youth as the young Patroclus is. Muscled but not veiny, calloused but unblemished, his skin and hair smooth and glowing.
Young Patroclus’ hand comes up to cover the one Achilles has on his cheek. “They are beautiful, aren’t they?” he asks, and Achilles hears something familiar in his voice—the genuine lust, the awe, but the little undercurrent of envy.
He cannot imagine it. Of course his beloved is lovely beyond description, but so is this younger version of him, and Achilles reaches up to hold his face with both hands. “You are beautiful, lad,” he says, and kisses him. His lips are soft and sweet with the taste of Hydralite, his scruff a pleasant scratch against Achilles’ skin, and Achilles pulls him in closer so the young Patroclus is in his lap. Young Patroclus lets out a litany of pleasant noises just from being kissed, little “mm”s and sighs, still so responsive. Achilles is almost content to have him just like this, to hold him and kiss him, but he hears young Achilles let out a sharp whine. He pulls away and looks at the other pair. Pat is attacking young Achilles’ neck with kisses, and already his hand has snuck under his white chiton. Young Achilles gasps and whines and thrashes, as radiant as a God.
Young Patroclus rests his head on Achilles’ shoulder. “Does he make you wish you were young again?” he asks softly, the words hot against Achilles’ skin. Achilles, almost unconscious of it, moves to stroke his dark curls and he lets out a satisfied noise. “My love is like the sun,” he says. “And yours… I wish I had been able to grow that old. He looks himself.”
“Perhaps I miss the man I was,” Achilles murmurs in reply.
Young Patroclus’ gaze flicks to his. “Then let me see the man you are,” he says.
They work slower than their voracious other halves, but they disrobe Achilles together. Achilles has always been aware of his own beauty, but the more time he has spent in the Underworld, the harder it is to believe in it. There is something deeply gratifying in the way young Patroclus’ eyes light up when he sees Achilles’ body in full, like it is the most beautiful thing he’s seen, even though he beds the bright half-God next to them as often as he likes.
“I have never seen a man like you,” he murmurs into Achilles’ ear, and it is a sweet bit of youthful untruth, but Achilles shivers anyway.
He mouths at Achilles’ neck, but only briefly. Achilles is broader than his younger self, and young Patroclus seems taken with his body, especially his chest. He takes a pec in each hand and squeezes them, earning a shiver, and bends down to kiss at one of Achilles’ nipples. “Sweet thing,” Achilles gasps, feeling a threat of teeth, and the young Patroclus laughs. He lavishes attention on one before switching to the other, kneading the pec he’s not sucking with his free hand. “Lad,” Achilles says again, strained.
Young Patroclus pulls away with a wet pop. “I cannot resist,” he says with an apologetic smile. “You are every bit as beautiful as my Achilles.”
“Every bit?” says the young Achilles, a bit affronted.
He is on his stomach in the grass, divested of his chiton, ass up, and Pat kneels between his knees. He is a vision, Achilles must admit, but both Pat and young Patroclus only roll their eyes.
“You can discipline him for that if you’d like,” young Patroclus tells Pat, disguised with disdain, but his eyes glint at the prospect.
Pat raises his eyebrows. “Can I? Can I discipline the greatest of the Greeks?”
Even though it is not directed at him, Achilles’ cock still jerks at the sentiment.
Young Achilles squirms with a false indignation. “If you must—“
As quickly as he’s given permission, Pat brings his hand down hard on one of his cheeks, and young Achilles yelps. Pat grins at young Patroclus, all teeth, and spanks Achilles hard again on the other cheek, earning a short moan. “Please,” the young Achilles begs.
Young Patroclus turns back to Achilles, satisfied to listen to the sharp slap of Pat’s hand against the flesh of young Achilles’ ass. He presses in close, his clothed bulge against Achilles’ cock. “My beloved is still so arrogant, sometimes. But your years have humbled you, haven’t they?” He tilts his head. “Certainly I won’t have to discipline you.”
Perhaps Achilles has greatly misjudged the power dynamic at hand here. “No.” He swallows. “No, my love.”
The young Achilles’ cries turn into one long, high keen, and they both glance over to see Pat pushing inside of him. “Fuck,” Pat curses, “fuck, so tight.”
The young Patroclus reaches past him to fumble for the already-opened oil between them, and slicks up his fingers. Achilles is a bit overwhelmed by it—the sight and sound of his Pat fucking into him but not him, the cries of his younger self, and the young Patroclus’ slicked fingers moving to his ass.
“Are you well?” asks young Patroclus. A flush is high on his freckled cheeks.
“Yes, lad,” Achilles barely manages. “Yes, please, I…”
“I’ve barely even touched you,” titters young Patroclus, but he pushes a finger in anyway and Achilles falls apart. He resumes his worship of Achilles’ body as he stretches him open, laying kisses on his chest and neck, stroking his arms and abdomen and hair. As he adds a second and third finger, Achilles can hear Pat’s grunts and the young Achilles’ moans as they fuck next to them, but somehow he isn’t compelled to look. The young Patroclus is impossible to look away from as he removes his fingers and hitches his chiton up to reveal his cock, dark and flushed at the tip.
Achilles’ head falls back. “You are beyond words, sweet thing,” he says, barely a whisper.
“You flatter me.” Young Patroclus sounds almost embarrassed, and gently pushes into Achilles. His cock is not quite as thick as his Pat’s, but it is just as long, and Achilles keens as Patroclus feeds it inside of him. “Oh, look how beautiful you are,” young Patroclus says, lifting one hand from where it holds Achilles open to rest his knuckles against his cheek.
“Please,” Achilles begs.
Young Patroclus fucks him with slow, deep thrusts. He isn’t hurried, or trying to match Pat, who’s practically pounding the young Achilles into the ground, judging by how often he hears skin clap against skin. Young Patroclus is much more gentle, but no less devastating, brushing Achilles’ prostate each time he thrusts. He smiles, sweet even as he takes Achilles apart.
Achilles doesn’t want him to pull out, doesn’t want to be left empty, and wraps his legs around young Patroclus, trying to keep him close. Young Patroclus laughs, and bends down, bracing one arm against the soft earth, to kiss him.
“Take it,” he hears Pat snarl. “Take it, Aristos Achaion, take it,” and the young Achilles pleads for him in response. But young Patroclus is not hurried as they are, and Achilles is too taken to him for his body to even really respond to their cries. Young Patroclus is all-consuming, his hips slapping gently against Achilles’ ass, his cock pressing deep inside of him, his lips moving against Achilles’ own. Achilles barely has to work. He is a thing to be cherished, worshipped.
The heat inside his abdomen is building, but slow, a fire stoked gently to burn. He almost resents it. He does not want this to end, his embrace with this sweet thing, who strokes his body with his free hand with the reverence of a prayer.
Eventually, though, the young Patroclus breaks from their kiss and sits to his full height. A little dazed, Achilles notices that the noises from their partners have stopped, and glances over just as young Patroclus does. Pat and the young Achilles are quite finished, apparently, both heaving with exhaustion. Cum is splattered all over Pat’s dark stomach and drips down young Achilles’ golden thighs. They’re both watching them with hungry eyes.
Young Achilles waves at him, a wiggle of the fingers.
Pat only gives them a flat look. “I was enjoying the show,” he says, a little hoarse.
Young Patroclus turns back towards him. “Maybe I’ve taken too much time with you,” he says, setting both hands on Achilles’ thighs. He likes his thighs, Achilles can tell—they’re thicker than the young Achilles’ with his extra years of muscle, and young Patroclus’ eyes linger on them.
“No, sweet thing,” Achilles assures, “it is our other halves who are too quick.”
“I won’t apologize,” young Patroclus says amicably. “You’re lovely. I could have you forever.” How sweet that sounds. Young Patroclus shifts his gaze. “But I’d hate to keep them waiting…”
Achilles reaches up to brush his cheek, this time, fingers brushing the hair of his scruff. “You have me.”
He knows Patroclus was being gentle before, but he is not prepared for how the first real thrust punches the breath out of his chest. He gasps, like he’s young, as Patroclus leans down and pounds into him. His thrusts are short and hard and fast, and he closes his eyes and bites his lip like he’s trying to keep sound in.
“No, no, let me…”
“Fuck,” young Patroclus gasps, and Achilles shudders in turn, just from his sweet voice. “Can you cum just like this? On my cock? I, hah, fuck, I want…I want you to…”
Achilles cannot remember the last time he has cum untouched, but this young Patroclus asking him is enough, and he clenches down and cries out high and needy as his spend spatters all over his abdomen. His tightness makes the young Patroclus cum too, moaning, “Achilles, Achilles,” like a prayer, as he fills Achilles up. He fucks him through the aftershocks, until he’s finally spent, and then collapses into Achilles’ shoulder.
With the last of his energy, Achilles wraps an arm around his trim waist. For a moment they both breathe together.
“Well, fuck,” Pat murmurs.
Achilles’ eyes are still closed, but he hears the light crunch of the Elysian grass, someone moving around him. “I hope your stamina hasn't weakened,” murmurs the young Achilles, to him or to his Patroclus or both. “You have gotten us both rather...”
On top of him, young Patroclus shifts, in turn shifting his cock inside of Achilles. Gods, it’s firming up already. Gods, so is Achilles. “I half-expected you to fuck him again, we were taking so long,” he says.
“I don’t think he’ll be able to handle me twice in a row,” replies Pat, amused.
Achilles finally opens his eyes to see the slope of young Patroclus’ body as he looks up, and young Achilles and Pat standing over them. Young Achilles’ cat eyes narrow. “I am no weakling, but he is… a harsh lover,” he says to young Patroclus.
“But you liked it?” young Patroclus asks, as if to store this away.
“Of course I did.”
Achilles slides his other hand up to gently cup young Patroclus’ ass. “My love, I think you have to pull out,” he says. “Or I think we’ll be going at it again, and that's not fair to our partners, is it?”
“How thoughtful,” Pat and the young Patroclus say at once, and then laugh. Young Patroclus carefully eases his cock out of Achilles, leaving him empty and dripping cum onto the Elysian grasses. Pat hums, pleased, and tells the young Patroclus, “Goodness, how debauched.”
Young Patroclus settles gently onto the grass next to him. “If we are discussing debauchery, I think you’ve done the most,” he says to Pat, grinning, and then brings the young Achilles into a sweet kiss.
As they occupy each other, Pat kneels down next to him. “Did he wear you out, my Achilles?”
Achilles laughs and pushes himself up into a sit. “Gods, no. I’ve you as my lover, it takes much more than that to exhaust me.” He grins slyly at the smug look that crosses his lover’s face. “I haven’t had a young man in some time, that’s all. I’ve forgotten how it feels.”
There’s a thump of fabric against grass—young Achilles has convinced young Patroclus to finally take off his chiton. Pat eyes them both appreciatively. “I have, too,” he agrees. “What a shame it will be, when this returns to normal.”
Achilles would not mind having them here for some time, having two Patroclus’ to bed. He and Pat hadn’t shared in a long time, and he had missed how it felt, especially how their other selves had slipped into their arms like they had been doing it their whole lives. That ease was hard to achieve. He leans into his lover’s body. “What a shame, indeed,” he murmurs.
The young Achilles and Patroclus have stopped their whispering and kissing. They’re both glancing over at Achilles and Pat now, and then back at each other.
“Already?” Pat asks, faux-stern, and they both grin.
“It—I—” The young Patroclus clears his throat, looking almost embarrassed. He looks to Achilles. “You should have my Achilles,” he says, in a rush.
“...Me?” Achilles asks.
“Who else?” says the young Achilles, crisp, but he too looks a little nervous.
Pat makes a noise of contemplation. “It would be quite a sight,” he says.
To be frank, Achilles hadn’t even considered it. He’d been thinking of the young Patroclus, slim and muscular and gorgeous, perhaps even with his own Pat. The young Achilles was still Achilles, and it had never even crossed his mind to fuck himself.
But of course it is not like it would be a hard labor. He is, after all, radiant, with his shining golden hair and plump lips. Achilles’ eyes fall to the curve of his ass, the cum dripping down his thighs. He had sounded beautiful when Pat fucked him. So beautiful.
His cock twitches.
“If it is what you would like,” he tells the young Achilles.
“It would please me,” the young Achilles agrees imperiously, and he crosses to Achilles in a few swift steps. Gods, Achilles remembers when he was like this, peacocking around as Aristos Achaion. Of course, he would not be surprised if he were more like that today, had he spent all his days in Elysium as the young Achilles had. Young Achilles stands over him, eyeing his member, now hard and dripping again between his thighs. “I’d like to take you,” he says, with a kind of authority that few can manage while demanding cock. “Shall I ride you? Or—”
“You may,” Achilles allows, trying not to betray his urgency and inflate his younger self’s ego more.
He clearly fails, since his younger self grins, that cat’s smile, and straddles him. Next to them Pat and the young Patroclus are locked in an embrace, Pat’s hand on his younger’s asscheek and dripping in oil. But they aren’t moving yet besides slowly grinding against each other. They watch Achilles and the young Achilles, eyes wide. Young Patroclus bites his lip and smiles.
Young Achilles takes Achilles’ cock in hand and carefully positions himself, with the familiar hard eyes of a warrior on a mission. It is almost funny, how seriously he’s taking it, until he sinks down and Achilles groans out an “Oh, Gods.” Even after getting fucked open by Pat, he is tight as a vice and unspeakably warm.
Pat and the young Patroclus laugh to each other. “Tightest ass I’ve ever had,” Pat says, and the young Patroclus sighs a “he’s incredible, isn’t he?”
His younger self is incredible, and, judging by the grin on his face, he knows it, too. He rolls his hips gently as he rides him, his hands sliding up his own body, half a show to arouse and half a challenge. Achilles knows a challenge when he sees it, and it gleams in his younger’s eyes. This isn’t like young Patroclus, where doing all the work was a kindness, an act of worship—now it’s a dismissal. You’re just a cock for me to use, he can practically hear the young Achilles saying. You can’t make me cum.
Pat and the young Patroclus are sighing and gasping, and there are squelching noises, the clear sound of Pat opening him up. The young Achilles turns to look at them, and it’s the last dismissal Achilles will tolerate. He places both hands on the young Achilles’ hips and thrusts up just as he sinks down, earning one of those sweet, musical moans.
“Yes, fuck him,” the young Patroclus says with vehemence. It’s the most vulgar Achilles had heard him sound. Then he cries out, “Fuck me,” this time clearly to Pat.
Perhaps young Achilles likes being a brat, because once he recovers, he just laughs and keeps bouncing on Achilles’ cock, now in time with Achilles’ shallow thrusts. He’s so goddamn tight, and beautiful, and each time Achilles bottoms out he earns another little groan. He starts bouncing faster and faster, as if daring Achilles to keep up, and Achilles always can.
Until he pauses, bracing his feet against the grass and pushing up his knees. Young Achilles laughs. “Are you worn?” he asks, over the sound of Pat and Patroclus’ moans, in his musical voice.
Of course, this new position means a much better angle to fuck his younger self. When he thrusts up this time, with all his strength, the young Achilles can’t roll with it—instead he lets out a moan more like a wail, like the ones Pat had punched out of him, and slips forward. He has to brace his hands on Achilles’ pecs.
“I’ll show you worn, lad,” he says with a grin.
That seems to be what it takes to tame the young Achilles. Now with every thrust into his tight ass, Achilles earns much more than a little groan. He’s very talkative, his fingers digging into the plush flesh of Achilles’ chest, and he begs, “Please, please, fuck, please—”
“You like my cock?”
“Gods damn you,” snarls young Achilles, but he immediately cries out in pure pleasure as Achilles fucks into him, almost losing his grip again.
It is the first time Elysium has felt like paradise—not just having such a beautiful youth to fuck, but to be able to look next to him and see the heavenly young Patroclus on his back, bent practically in half as Pat pounds into him. The cacophony of their moans and groans, the faces sweet young Patroclus and his beloved Pat and desperate young Achilles make as they find their pleasure, and the tightness of young Achilles around his cock.
Suddenly young Achilles’ grip tightens on his pec. “Wait,” he says, “wait—”
Achilles stops immediately.
“Patroclus, you too—wait—”
Although clearly reluctantly, Pat stops fucking his other in half, and they both turn to look at the radiant youth on Achilles’ cock.
“Patroclus, have my mouth while he fucks you,” young Achilles says, pupils blown wide. “And he fucks me.”
“Yes,” someone says, although Achilles is not sure who said it.
They rearrange themselves as quickly as they can, with the young Achilles on his back, and the young Patroclus over him on his hands and knees. It is agony to be removed from his warmth, and he is sure Pat feels the same, but it is worth it to see the tip of young Patroclus’ cock slip into young Achilles’ plump mouth and hear the shuddering gasp they all get in return. Achilles presses his cock back inside his younger’s ass, and watches with a heady gaze as Patroclus does the same, pushing into young Patroclus’ waiting hole.
He is not sure who moves first, or exactly how, but again he is overcome almost immediately by it—fucking into the young Achilles and watching his beloved pound into the young Patroclus, his mouth an o of complete pleasure. Young Patroclus is beyond moans, or any real comprehendible noise, making mostly high-pitched keens as Pat takes his ass and young Achilles takes his cock.
Achilles cannot imagine lasting long in the face of such pleasure, so he is not surprised when young Patroclus gasps, “I—soon—I ca—I’m cumming!”
His cum spurts into Achilles’ mouth, who takes it all greedily, and as he cries out, so too does Pat. “Fuck,” Pat gasps, burying his face in young Patroclus’ shoulder to swallow the long, deep moan he lets out. Achilles wraps a hand around his younger self’s cock, and the way young Achilles tightens combined with the clap of Pat’s hips against the younger Patroclus’ ass is too much for him. His whole body shakes, and he’s sure he lets out some awful, desperate moan as he spills inside of that tight ass. The pleasure running through him is too much to handle—for a few seconds he’s gone, whited out.
When he comes back to himself Pat has dislodged himself from the young Patroclus, holding him loosely from behind, as they both gasp for breath. The young Achilles is squirming off his cock and into a ginger kneel. Before Achilles can even move, his young self leans up to kiss him, and Achilles tastes the bitter tang of cum—the young Patroclus’ cum. He’d kept it in his mouth. It’s enough to make his cock stir again already, but young Achilles just pulls away and kisses Pat next, who makes a pleased noise at the sound and holds him close. Young Patroclus eyes them and grins, and Achilles is ready to meet him when he leans in for a deep, passionate kiss of their own. They separate, and the young Achilles takes hold of the young Patroclus’ chin and kisses him last. The young Patroclus’ eyes go wide at the taste of cum, but then he leans into it, kissing him again and again.
Over their shoulders, Pat grins at him. Achilles grins back, and, for posterity, leans in to give him a kiss, too.
“We are never letting them go,” Pat says against his lips.
“Gods, no,” Achilles agrees breathily.